


Ritual (7): Christmas at the Coopers'

by mystery_sock (terebi_me)



Series: Ritual [7]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Peter, But he doesn't care, Christmas Party, Christmas Smut, Consensual Underage Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Nathan Should Know Better, Naughty, Petrellicest, Ritual, Romantic Friendship, Sexy Memory, Sibling Incest, Teenage Peter, Tickle Fights, bent over a sink, horseplay, nice, us vs. them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 08:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terebi_me/pseuds/mystery_sock
Summary: "... Remember, in the Coopers' bathroom that one Christmas?" Peter spends an evening alone, remembering how and when it became real.





	Ritual (7): Christmas at the Coopers'

**Author's Note:**

> [original posting note] Written by anonymous request to elaborate something referred to in Ritual (4). Peter's age is never explicitly stated here, which might make it more or less shocking to you, depending on your own ideas of what's acceptable. Much more light-hearted than most of the other Ritual stories, but also chock full of WRONG.
> 
> [updated posting note] There's really nothing THAT shocking involved here besides the age ambiguity (and of course the incest... there's that, too)... there's much, much more strong stuff, quite clearly defined, later in the series. That said, this story is incredibly hot... and I love it to this day. Enjoy!

_SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE..._

Peter's evening dinner-and-a-movie date had cancelled on him with almost no notice. Peter had gotten showered and shaved, but not yet gotten dressed. He closed his phone and gave an impatient sigh, standing around in his robe and boxers with a smooth face and an empty stomach.

He could have always just gotten dressed all cute and combed his hair and gone out alone; he had a magical ability to pick up women, even if keeping them around was something that he hadn't quite been able to master. But tonight, he just didn't feel like it. He'd had a long, strenuous day at work and school, and he'd been worried that he would fall asleep in the middle of the movie. Really, the cancellation was a blessing; it had been too long since Peter had just had a night off to rest and relax.

So, of course, having a night free of obligation, he thought of Nathan.

Quickly, though, Peter dismissed the thought. If he was too tired to go chase pussy tonight, he certainly didn't have enough energy to deal with Nathan, even if his brother was available. Which Nathan almost definitely wasn't, not with all the campaign craziness heating up–in fact, as he recalled suddenly, Nathan was out of town, anyway. And even at his brattiest, Peter would never call Nathan halfway across the country demanding a booty call.

Still, it was nice to think about. Because he knew that Nathan would absolutely do it. Peter would absolutely do it, too—if Nathan called tonight, Peter would catch the first flight out, play with Nathan for an hour, and catch a red-eye back to make it in time for his mid-morning anatomy lecture. (He could sleep on the plane. He had it all figured out.)

But Nathan wasn't going to call.

Peter made a quick supper, ate and washed up, turned on some music, and settled onto his couch with his endocrinology textbook, figuring he'd take the extra time to study. He quickly realized the pointlessness that idea, and set the book aside. Once Peter started thinking about Nathan, the word "hormones" just meant something completely different to him.

* * *

 

_BEFORE..._

For a while, Nathan just chalked everything up to Peter's rampaging hormones. Or that's what Nathan said, anyway. Like Nathan was just grudgingly doing Peter a favor for being there - lying still and letting himself be kissed and rubbed against.

Despite all the frottage, for years, Peter had never tried to touch Nathan's cock; he didn't have the guts to try to touch another guy's piece, even if it was Nathan, even if he trusted Nathan with his body, his soul, his life.

But Peter thought about Nathan's penis a lot. He had seen it naked and soft, and seen it hard underneath Nathan's clothes, but for the longest time, he never saw it naked and erect, and he could drive himself crazy imagining what it would look like. He whispered to his pillow at night as he held it in his arms and between his legs, pretending that the lump of down and fiber-fill was a long, lean, firm panther body: _I love you—I'm in love with you—can I touch it? Please let me touch it... I'll be good; I promise._

Sometimes he visualized Nathan fucking the girls that Peter knew at school, but it didn't quite seem to work; Nathan was way too mature for any of them. It was easier to picture Nathan fucking adult women, movie stars and models, the usual leggy blondes that Nathan seemed to go for. He imagined Nathan fucking them in all sorts of ways—gentle and romantic, coldly efficient, wild and dirty and brutal. Peter didn't know how Nathan did it, what he was like in bed; maybe Nathan did it every kind of way Peter could imagine, and more. With Peter, Nathan just lay still, and let Peter rub himself off against him, often tenderly stroking Peter's hair when he knew Peter had come. But he never touched Peter more than that, and never kissed Peter's mouth except in response, always with closed lips.

After several frustratingly delicious events like this, Peter got bold. On a night where Peter was sleeping over at his brother's new bachelor pad, all hopped up on soda and action movies, horseplay and tickling led to wrestling. While Nathan was on his back, letting himself be pinned, Peter straddled Nathan's hips, and rubbed his ass against Nathan's dick. It immediately got hard, and Nathan actually moaned out loud, with that broken, shuddery tone of voice that said that Nathan had been holding that moan inside for a long, long time.

Unfortunately, that moan also broke Peter, who came almost instantly. Underneath him, Nathan smirked. Was it disappointment in his eyes? "Great work, Pete," Nathan had said. "Go get cleaned up; I don't want you messing up my new sofa." In the shower, Peter wanked himself off four more times, producing semen as thin and runny as skim milk, hoping to God that Nathan was watching him, and jerking off his own big, thick, solid cock.

Peter would have given anything to touch it; a million dollars just to see it. Would have happily given his life to hear Nathan command him: _Suck it, Peter._ But he wasn't going to compromise Nathan's dignity (at that age, it would never have occurred to Peter that it was also, mostly, the risk to his own ego that he feared). That was too much; that idea was scarier than his own death.

He didn't want Nathan to be disappointed in him. 

But he just couldn't stop thinking about it.

This brutal, unrelenting lust made Peter bolder with girls. Because he could never think of anything to say to them, he could only be direct and a little abrupt (which worked better than he'd have thought), and once he was with them, he had no choice but to listen to them. He found most girls vapid and empty-headed, but some of them were okay and others were great, and he found them a lot more fun to talk to than most guys, who were also vapid and empty-headed. But making new friends was just a bonus. He wasn't trying to talk to the girls; he was trying to make out with them. And some of the vapid ones were the some of the best ones to make out with; they were superficial, but they had a great understanding of physical communication and fun with their bodies. It gave him a mild twinge of guilt that he was messing around with some girls who had reputations as sluts, but only with the ones who were actually interested in sensuality for its own sake, not in trying to get and keep a boyfriend.

Peter realized that he himself was getting a reputation as a slut. He appreciated the irony; he was a lady-lovin' Lothario because he couldn't stop wanting to make out with Nathan. And he couldn't have Nathan. It wouldn't be real until he saw Nathan's cock, touched it, tasted it, had it inside him—

And he couldn't have that.

Because if it became real, what then?

* * *

Peter, thinking about it now, couldn't even remember what the argument had been about. Christmas Eve, at the five-story house in Midtown owned by Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, some old friends of their mother's family. As old money as you could get, who had been reduced to some crooked dealings to hang onto their money (and that's where Dad came in). The huge, ornate house was ridiculous, and it sickened Peter to see how his mother hungrily consumed it all with her eyes glazed with jealousy and cunning. He hated seeing that look on his mother's face, that lust for money and status. Peter didn't want to have anything to do with that stuff, whether it was acquired through moral means or not.

The Coopers and the parents were drinking after dinner—Ma had so many little glasses of amaretto that the tip of her nose was glowing like Rudolph—and Peter was drinking amaretto, too, supplemented with the cognac-filled chocolates that Nathan had put into Peter's stocking. (Peter remembered that part; it was such a sweet thing for Nathan to do.) Nathan was drinking single-malt scotch, of course, because Nathan was a big snob, even at Christmas.

And Peter had disagreed with Mr. Cooper about something—politics or something—and Peter had defended his point of view pretty eloquently, actually reducing Mr. Cooper to red-faced, spluttering frustration. And then Dad broke into the conversation and shut Peter down, defending Mr. Cooper, even though he had to use lawyer-speak to make Cooper's bullshit make sense. And then, for some reason, Peter's father got personal: "I really don't see why you imagine that you've got a better handle on this than a celebrated philanthropist, when you're barely clearing a C in any of your classes this semester. I mean, if you don't want to follow your brother to Yale, I'm more than happy to save the money."

Peter jumped out of his chair. His first thought was to strangle his father to death with his bare hands, but immediately checked himself and looked at Nathan. Nathan's eyes were narrowed, but not at Peter—at his father and Cooper, seated next to each other near the roaring fireplace. Peter stood up as straight as he could and said coldly, "Excuse me," turning and walking through the vast sitting room full of rich and influential guests, who watched him as he left. He hoped they'd heard him, too.

Peter smiled with satisfaction as he heard Nathan's voice raised behind him. "You gotta admit, the kid has a point... and Dad, objection, irrelevancy, okay? I'll talk to Peter about his grades, but this isn't the forum to discuss them."

Peter left the room and wandered down the hall, having no idea where he was going, just needing to get the hell out of there. Within a few seconds, he heard from behind him, "Hey, wait up." Nathan stormed after him, pulling frustratedly at his tie. Nathan grimaced and said, "Sometimes I just want to kill him."

"Tell me about it. I hate how he kicks you when you're down, no matter who you are. Fuck him... But hey... thanks," Peter said. "That was really cool. You never defended me to him before."

"I haven't?" Nathan asked vaguely. "Hmm. Hey, let's go downstairs. Apparently they have a tennis court in the basement; I wouldn't doubt it."

The tennis court rumor was untrue—instead it was just a really big, well-outfitted gym—but across from it was a large bathroom that looked like it had been designed by a completely different team than the rest of the house. This room was very basic and straightforward, with clean, simple details, but for the interesting touch of pale blue track lighting along the edges of the ceiling that automatically switched on when the white overhead lights were switched off.

Nathan was fascinated by this, and Peter shut and locked the door behind them, heart pounding in his chest. Peter had to take this chance. He switched the overhead lights off, soothing blue track lights on, making the room dim and otherworldly. Peter trapped Nathan against the wall and kissed him on the lips, dry and quick, until Nathan kissed back. Quickly, the kisses became soft, moist, slower. Peter led with his tongue, just broaching the inside of Nathan's lips, and there was that moan again from Nathan. Something like a lust finally satisfied.

Mouths open. Feasting on each other, Nathan sucking Peter's lower lip. When Peter finally broke away, their eyes met. He had almost caught up to Nathan's height, and they could now see eye to eye. To Peter's surprise, Nathan didn't look freaked out in the slightest; instead, he looked more... playful. "You taste like chocolate," Nathan murmured. "I like it."

Peter smiled back, and in Nathan's arms, turned his back against him. And—again surprising Peter - Nathan embraced Peter tightly for a moment, then ran his hands down Peter's sides to his hips. Peter was glad that Nathan couldn't see the huge grin on his face. "I want you to bump me a little," Peter said, gently knocking his tailbone against Nathan's crotch by way of explanation. "Okay? Would you do that?"

"Just 'bump' you?" Nathan echoed, sounding a little confused. 

"Yeah," Peter whispered.

Nathan held Peter's hips, and bucked lightly against him a few times, walking him forward a few steps until Peter could reach the sink, but only if he bent forward. Peter's brain went into overdrive as he did so: _Oh, my God, he's making me bend over for him! This is the best day of my entire life!_ "You sure that's all you want?" Nathan's hand snaked forward and caught hold of Peter's erection, giving it a light squeeze.

Peter had to bite down on his hand to keep from crying out. He had never tried so hard to keep from coming before in his life. He tried to concentrate on the ordinariness of things—faint smell of cleaning products, a pump-action soap dispenser, the discomfort of his dress shoes, starched shirt, and tie. Peter pulled his hand out of his mouth to undo his tie, but his hands fumbled. Nathan drew Peter back upright again, and loosened Peter's tie himself, slipping it smoothly from underneath Peter's shirt collar, looping the tie over a towel rack, unfastening the top button on Peter's shirt. Then bending Peter forward again, bumping against Peter's ass with his hard-on.

"No," Peter said suddenly. "Stop." 

Nathan froze. "What is it?" he asked. 

"I want... somethin' else."

Behind Peter, Nathan relaxed and gave a faint, relieved laugh. "What do you want, Peter?" he asked. 

It was the scariest thing Peter had ever done; so scary that it actually tamped down his desire somewhat. When he spoke, his voice was shaking. "I... want you to... fingerfuck me."

"Oh, yeah," Nathan replied, "okay. Yeah, I'd do that."

"You would? Sick," Peter responded, then, realizing that Nathan might not get his sense of humor, he quickly added, "I mean, great. I mean, yes, please." He grinned some more as Nathan leaned beside him to open the medicine cabinet. "I mean, it's not something that everybody would want to do—I mean, I've been trying to do it myself, but it just doesn't quite work, y'know?"

"You've been trying to finger your own ass?" Nathan asked in that dry, disbelieving, teasing way.

"Yeah... I want to... I want to know what it feels like. Done properly." Peter didn't know why he hadn't asked for what he really wanted—all the things he really wanted. He hadn't really thought about Nathan fingering him until just now, and it was a more extreme thing to ask for than just getting to look at Nathan's erection. But really, he wanted to know if he would enjoy getting fucked with Nathan's cock, because he craved it in a strange, instinctive manner—wanted Nathan inside him—and had no idea whether or not he would even like something like that.

Nathan had found a bottle of something that made him snort with satisfaction and contempt. "So, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, engaging in a little back-door action, are we? I wonder which one's the bottom?" 

"Sick, dude."

"Don't overuse that word. And take your pants _off_. We can't afford to spill anything on them."

Peter stripped down to just the white silk thermal shirt he was wearing underneath his dress shirt. Nathan watched him, his expression unreadable, but his cock jutting at a painful-looking angle in his pants. Peter wanted to strip Nathan, too, but again, fear and respect stayed his hand. Peter breathed, "I can't believe you're doing this. It's so... I just want it so much..." 

"Stop talking, Peter." Nathan took Peter by the shoulder and turned him away again, toward the sink, and Peter obediently fell silent and curled his fingers around the lip of the sink, bending over at a more pronounced angle than before. Presenting to Nathan. Nathan grasped Peter's thighs in his hands, pulling them slightly apart, running his hands up, cupping the buttocks, his thumbs circling lightly right at the super-sensitive crease between thigh and ass. "Straighten up a little," Nathan said. When Peter did so, Nathan took Peter's chin in his hand and left a biting kiss on the side of Peter's face, then put both hands back on Peter's behind. "You're being very good." 

"I'm being very _bad_ ," Peter replied, laughing quietly. They were both being very bad; they were playing with fire on an apocalyptic scale. That, more than anything, is what Peter couldn't believe. He'd never imagined that he'd be so worth it to Nathan that Nathan would risk so much. Nathan had to need Peter just as much as Peter needed him—more, even, because Nathan had more to risk. It made Peter feel a little dizzy to think about that.

"I told you not to talk. You _are_ being bad. Be quiet. Ssh... keep it down." Nathan's voice trailed to a whisper as his forefinger stroked Peter's dry asshole. Then he spit onto his finger and did it again, and Peter felt a sensation like fireworks exploding all across his skin. Somehow, miraculously, he didn't come, or scream, or even have to bite himself. "You want this?" Nathan asked again, flipping open the lubricant bottle.

Peter nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. Be good and be quiet." Nathan tried to push his suddenly gooey, slippery finger inside, but didn't get very far. Peter was surprised at how resistant he seemed to be; he wanted this, didn't he? Nathan said, "You have to work with me a little here. You have to be conscious of it, because you have to make your muscles do exactly the opposite of what instinct is telling you to do."

Peter figured he could probably get the hang of that; that was his whole life, anyway. Maybe that had to change. Now.

Nathan murmured, "Bear down. Don't be scared; it's going to be fine." And Peter felt himself opening up... and fireworks, more fireworks.

"Oh!" 

"That's it. You get it."

"Oh... yeah... yeah!" Even if it had to be under his breath, Peter had never made sounds like this before—he'd never felt like this. Everything he'd thought was sex completely paled in comparison. The strength of Nathan's arm used for the delicate purpose of sliding a finger in and out, gradually getting harder and faster, astonished Peter, realized how much he had been getting wrong with girls, and maybe why they didn't want to see him again—

He'd been too gentle with them.

Of course Nathan knew how to do this better.

Two fingers.

"Oh god I'm gonna—" Peter staggered a step forward off Nathan's fingers, closer to the sink. Peter grabbed his cock just as a thin, brief jet of semen shot out of him and into the bowl of the sink, the orgasm itself little more than a footnote for the previous mind-blowing pleasure. Peter wanked himself harder, ejaculating again, then relaxing with a quick, heavy sigh.

Behind him, Nathan gave a quiet moan, breathing heavily. "You like that, huh?"

"Yeah... I guess I know _that_ about myself now," Peter mused. "I don't know what it means."

"Who cares what it means?" Nathan said, edging Peter aside. Peter blinked himself back to the world; Nathan's fly was undone, trousers pushed fractionally down, and his cock in his hand, jerking off with fast, neat, definitive strokes, the blunt, violet head glossy with pre-come.

Peter got on his knees on the floor, watching intently, hypnotized. "I wanna suck it," Peter murmured.

"No," said Nathan, jacking off even faster.

"Why not?"

"Because no."

Peter stroked the inside of Nathan's thigh, and kissed the side of Nathan's knee. "Oh, please?" he whispered. "Please can I?"

Nathan shuddered so hard that he almost hit Peter with his knee; Peter stood up to get out of the way, to keep watching. Nathan ejaculated—a lot—and while some of it went into the sink, he rubbed some of it onto his cock, lubricating the shaft with his slick fingers. Peter reflexively began to masturbate again, wishing that he still had Nathan's fingers inside him. Wanting it again _now._

Nathan finally stopped, and looked over at Peter. "Wow," he said. 

"You're so beautiful," Peter whispered, his cock throbbing and jumping in his hand.

"We'd better get... back to the party." He didn't seem to be able to look away from Peter's hand on his dick, seemingly well on its way to producing another orgasm.

"First, tell me you'll never leave me," Peter said. 

Nathan sighed impatiently. "Why would I need to say that to you? Right now?"

"Because you do." Peter's back spasmed, and sure enough, he came again, adding more stripes of come to the sink. 

Nathan swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from Peter's groin with visible effort. "Jeez. I'll never leave you. I love you. But this..." Nathan looked Peter in the eye. " _This_ has to stop." 

"Why?" Peter breathed, dampening a washcloth and carefully wiping Nathan clean without getting a single stray drop of water onto his clothes. It took tremendous concentration and precision, and Peter didn't rush himself. The fact that Nathan's cock stayed hard just made it easier to clean. 

Nathan couldn't even keep speaking until Peter was done. He noticed that he was stroking Peter's hair, and snatched his hand back. Peter smiled innocently. "Because we're... next time, we're gonna go too far," Nathan said.

"What's 'too far'?"

"It's whatever... is next." Nathan looked peeved.

Peter leaned in close, pressing his still half-erect cock against Nathan's thigh. "Maybe it won't be too far. Maybe we should try it."

Nathan just sniffed at Peter and moved out of the way. He scrubbed his hands in the sink, and put the bottle of lube back in its place in the medicine cabinet. "Put your clothes on. You're drunk, Peter."

"I'm not drunk—!"

"Sure you are. The amaretto didn't agree with you, on top of all the chocolates. You've been puking your guts out for the last half an hour, and I didn't want to leave you. I feel... somewhat responsible." Nathan put his tie back on as he spoke, finishing with a perfect Windsor knot, which he smoothed with an ostentatious flourish of the same finger he'd just used to fuck Peter.

"I bet you're a great lawyer, Nathan," Peter grumbled.

"It's good to be on my good side. You feel better?" He looked at Peter searchingly.

Peter thought about it, nodded, and smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I do. About everything."

"Good," said Nathan, stroking Peter's hair and then kissing his forehead. "Now, seriously, you gotta get your grades up."

"Or you won't make out with me anymore?" Peter asked ingenuously.

Nathan raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "You're freaking me out," he muttered. "Quit it. This has to stop. Do you understand me?" He went so far as to point at Peter, then, as Peter kept blinking at him, and licking the corner of his lips, Nathan realized how absurd he looked and sounded. "Christ. I'm getting out of here. Try to look appropriately pukey; don't waste a good cover story."

* * *

Peter got nearly straight A's in school after that.

And no, "this" did not stop.

Peter prayed that it wouldn't stop. And yet Nathan still needed Peter more than Peter needed him—but maybe not anymore. Maybe the stakes were too high now, and Peter wasn't worth the risk to Nathan.

He just wouldn't know until the next time they could go _too far_.

{They would.)


End file.
